The sequence of events that I am about to recount all took place on an otherwise normal and beautiful day back when I was in third grade. In fact, the day had started off extremely well as it was Take Your Child to Work Day and I was going to head off to Tempe with my Dad. I had a blast with him! We took a tour of Honeywell’s facility (they make airplane and helicopter parts for the military and public aircrafts) and had a picnic lunch with his colleagues and their children. As a surprise, my Dad had taken a half day so that we could go golfing at a local course. I was not a good golfer by any means, but I loved driving the cart around when we were out of sight of the pro-shop employees (shockingly, even to drive a golf cart you’re supposed to have a driver’s license).
When we got to the course, everything went according to plan. It wasn’t busy so we didn’t have to worry about holding other players up thanks to my lack of golfing ability, to put it lightly. When we rounded a bend and my Dad deemed it was safe, we switched drivers. I felt like the queen of the course, smoothly conducting the small cart from hole to hole, winding along the cart path. The way that the course was set up, we would have to drive directly past the pro-shop in order to reach the last two holes, so naturally I asked my Dad if we should switch. He told me just to be careful and that we would just sneak by unnoticed. I hesitantly agreed, being at the age where getting in trouble is the worst thing in the world I didn’t want to get reprimanded by the course employees. Nonetheless, I sat up straight, pushed back my shoulders and pushed the golf cart back up to its near maximum speed of seven miles per hour.
Everything was going fine, as I approached the bend that would lead us past the shop. However, that was when disaster struck. The cart hit a pot hole, causing it shoot straight for the putting green in the middle of which was a gigantic light pole (the kind you see at football stadiums). In my nine year old panic, I pushed down even harder on the gas peddle which sent us careening towards the green at an alarming rate of ten miles per hour. At this point, seeing my alarm and lack of good judgment, my Dad grabbed the wheel in an attempt steer us away from the putting green. I however, maintained a vice-like grip trying to steer us around the light pole. Naturally, this push-pull dynamic only kept us heading on our pole-bound course. Then, we made impact. My Dad flew out the front of the cart, his feet getting trapped underneath the seat causing him to perform a perfectly executed Superman. Then, we heard the resounding CRACK. The huge light pole smashed down onto the putting green, sending glass and sparks flying everywhere. I froze with panic. Thankfully, I snapped out of it as soon as my Dad asked me to release his feet so that he could resume an upright position.
The security guard for the course came and took down all of our information, asserting that we would have to pay for the lighting equipment. I lived in fear for almost three months that every time the phone rang it was the course calling to collect their thousands. Thankfully, the never did. The best that we could figure was the since the base of the light pole had been completely rusted through they had just chocked it up to the fall of the pole being inevitable. Furthermore, the fact that it was so rusted leads me to believe that given what could have happened should it have collapsed on its own accord (which would have happened quickly), the damage could have been much worse and someone could have been seriously hurt.
On a side note, I haven’t been golfing since. However, I still have the score card from that day, across which my Dad has written “Pole in One.”
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